


in sickness and in health

by plantyourtreeswithme



Series: je ne sais quoi? [5]
Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bisexual Gaston (Disney), LeFou (Disney) is a Nickname, M/M, Plague
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-25 17:08:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17125364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plantyourtreeswithme/pseuds/plantyourtreeswithme
Summary: Plague strikes Villeneuve.





	in sickness and in health

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the wonderfully existential movie "The Seventh Seal."

It began like this: one of the Bimbettes died.

She had seemed perfectly fine that night, if not a little pale, and kept insisting that she was fine when her sisters questioned her. Like always, Gaston paid her no mind - until she rose to follow her sisters across the tavern, swayed where she stood, and dropped dead to the floor.

Claudette screamed - or rather, squealed: it was a terrible, high-pitched sound reminiscent of a frightened pig's shriek. Gaston suspected that she might've died on the spot, too, had it not been for her wailing sister's hand on her arm. The two girls rushed towards their fallen sibling, reaching for her with trembling fingers and tears running down their painted faces -

"Don't!" LeFou suddenly cried, getting up from where he sat beside Gaston and making his way towards the dead girl. There was something in his voice that Gaston had never heard before: something sharp, and harsh, and so, so afraid. "No one move!"

The room stilled.

"Who touched her last?"

"I did," said the other sister, her once-flawless visage now mottled with tears. "What's happened to her?"

"Where has she been in the last two weeks?"

"W-well, she went to the stream a few Sundays ago to wash our clothes -"

"Did she drink from the water?" LeFou pressed.

"I don't know, we weren't -"

"I'll assume she has," Gaston's companion continued, paying no mind to the two girls he'd been questioning. He stepped forward and approached the fallen woman, giving her body a wide berth and refusing to touch her. "I would say she's been poisoned, but I can't tell unless I know for sure that the water was contaminated. Was she feverish when you left the house?"

"She said she felt a bit hot, but she insisted on coming with us," Paulette said as she dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. "She didn't want to miss..." She threw an embarrassed look at Gaston, her cheeks flushed, and refused to continue.

In an odd, jerking movement, LeFou turned on his heel and advanced to the fireplace, taking a pair of tongs from the stand and sending Gaston a look as he passed. Gaston couldn't help but notice the fear flickering in his friend's face as he crossed the room again to approach the corpse. With a slightly trembling hand, he lifted up her skirts with the ashy tool and ignored the shocked cries that rang out as he did.

"Be quiet!" he snapped; then he covered his mouth and nose and leaned closer to examine something on her leg that Gaston couldn't make out from where he was sitting. A few moments later, LeFou let go of the dress and got to his feet.

"If she died of what I think she did," he announced to the tavern, "we'll all be joining her within the year. I suggest that everyone goes home tonight and doesn't return until I've told the whole village it's alright to be outside."

"And who are you to tell us what to do?" someone called from the crowd. Gaston, who still hadn't moved, felt a surge of anger rise in him for reasons he didn't quite understand.

"I served as a healer in the war for five years, and my colleagues were well-versed with illnesses like this," LeFou replied, his voice pointed and authoritative. "Go shut yourselves inside and tell your neighbors to do the same until I come and tell you everything's alright."

"But -"

"It'd be in your best interest to listen to him," Gaston found himself saying, "before every single one of you ends up exactly like that girl on the floor."

That set the sisters off again, and they were ushered out by the perplexed barkeep as the rest of the customers exited. LeFou waited for all of them to leave before retrieving his and Gaston's coats from the hooks by the door - and it was only then that Gaston stood, surprised to find that he was shaking.

"I don't suppose you're going to tell me we're going home, too, are you?" he asked in a voice quite unlike his own.

"No," said LeFou, handing him his jacket and putting on his own; "it's still light out, which means there's still time to go to the river."

 

* * *

 

"What do you think killed her?" Gaston asked as they tread along the shore. "Mere skin contact with the water couldn't have done it."

"She had to have drunk some," LeFou explained, casting a look over his shoulder at him. "She was working hard and it was hot out; she must've gotten thirsty at some point."

"But what was in the stream, then?"

LeFou stopped so suddenly that Gaston almost ran into him. "Maybe that," he suggested, pointing at a strange, hulking carcass caught between two crags in the coursing water. Upon closer examination, Gaston realized that it was a fallen stag - but it was so deformed and bulbous that he had barely even recognized it. Its antlers had evidently snapped off against the rock its body was stuck between, and the flesh itself was bloated and blotched with a series of bizarre bulges and blisters.

It reeked. The two of them could not help but pull their coat collars over their noses.

"I was right," LeFou told him once they had retreated to the path leading back to Villeneuve. "The water was contaminated. She must've fallen ill as soon as it reached her stomach."

"What did the stag give her?" Gaston asked, shuddering at the thought of the grossly swollen animal. He had come across dead deer before, of course - he'd killed hundreds of them, for god's sake - but never like this.

"If it's what I think it is, we'll all be dead by next winter," his companion said as they trod on.

"LeFou, will you just - ?"

He found himself reaching unwittingly for LeFou's arm, and his friend pulled away at once, his expression fierce and full of anguish.

"What's wrong, my dear?"

"Please don't touch me."

"Why - ?"

He suddenly stopped in the middle of the road and said, "Can't you see how afraid I am?"

"Of what, dying? That's perfectly understandable."

"No," LeFou said, "you don't get it."

Gaston didn't, so he kept his mouth shut as they approached the village's edge, darkened by both the starry sky and the strange mood that had fallen over its residents.

 

* * *

 

LeFou did not seem to hear Gaston as he called out to him, and kept speaking with the owner of the pub, saying, "Make sure you burn everything she touched, Antoine. I don't want to see you or your customers dead, too."

"Thank you, monsieur."

"Of course." He turned around, a tired look on his face, and his eyes widened in surprise as he finally spotted Gaston. "Oh, Gaston! You scared me."

"Hello, dearest."

That earned him a weary smile. "Hello. Will you walk with me?"

He seemed to be attempting to make up for the night before, so Gaston agreed. They spent the better part of the morning running errands at all the shops the townspeople had neglected to close, much to LeFou's chagrin. First, they stopped at the tanner's so LeFou could buy an inordinate amount of leather; then they went to the market to pick some rosemary; and after that, they went into the forest to gather some more plants of their own that the local herbalist evidently did not possess.

"What do we need marigolds for?" Gaston asked as he gathered several bunches up in his hands and deposited them in LeFou's basket.

"They have certain healing properties," LeFou explained quietly. He was bent over a particularly stubborn stem, his brow furrowed in frustration as he tried to pull the flower from the ground. A few strands of hair had fallen from his pompadour to rest against his cheeks, and it gave him such an endearing appearance that Gaston's heart felt incredibly full.

Suddenly, LeFou looked up and caught him staring. He blushed a little, sent him a small, sheepish grin, and said, "What?"

Gaston found himself flustered, as well. "It's nothing," he said, somewhat haltingly, and reached forward to help LeFou.

Once they had picked enough, they headed back to their house, where LeFou set to work on the many pieces of leather he had amassed earlier that day. Gaston sat at his side and wrote as the shorter man made several clean holes through the material with an awl, threaded cord through the openings with nimble fingers, and dictated the letters Gaston was composing.

When they were done, LeFou signed his name in a shaky hand at the bottom of each one and sealed them. There were three: one for each of LeFou's most trusted associates in the war. He was writing to them to ask for help - cures, knowledge, anything - dealing with what Gaston sincerely hoped was not what it appeared to be.

Then he had Gaston try on the makeshift protective gear he had fashioned, and of course, it all fit perfectly. LeFou was constantly tailoring or mending Gaston's clothes for the sake of convenience (and money). Who  _wouldn't_ utilize an excellent tailor if they had a live-in one?

"Thank you," Gaston said softly as he helped LeFou take off his own costume. "Shall we go to bed?"

"Yes," was the simple reply, and soon, they had blown out all the candles downstairs and retreated to the second floor.

At the threshold of his bedroom door, the smaller of the two paused and looked back at Gaston with an oddly vulnerable expression.

"What is it?" he asked with a smile on his lips.

LeFou extended his hand towards him, and that was all Gaston needed.

 

* * *

 

Two weeks later, LeFou received three letters that all confirmed the Black Death had reached Villeneuve.

 

* * *

 

They slipped into a sickening routine. Every morning, Gaston would rise and put on what he was coming to regard as his armor: layers upon layers of leather, encasing his flesh and bones to keep from falling ill. He and LeFou would gather as many baskets as they could carry from around the house, and for the first two hours of each day, they would hunt for herbs in the forest.

There was a sort of harshness about LeFou now. He wasn't afraid to tell people they were dying of plague, or lance their disgusting, pus-filled blisters, or burn down the houses of the deceased.

"Fire is cleansing," he said to Gaston one night as they watched a cottage burn. "It brings forth new beginnings."

Gaston said nothing, only reaching for his companion's gloved hand under cover of darkness and squeezing it tight.

He was worried for LeFou. The stress of caring for an entire village was getting to him: dark circles ringed his eyes; his body was losing its warm, natural glow that Gaston had always found abnormally attractive; most nights he did not sleep. He stumbled upon the latter by accident one night when he happened to wake in the early hours due to a disconcerting dream. When he opened his fearful eyes, he found a wide awake LeFou looking at him with concern and a raw tenderness that cut Gaston like a knife.

"H..." he began, then cleared his throat: "How long have you been awake, darling?"

His friend caressed his cheek gently, tentatively, and did not answer. Gaston reached up and took his hand, daring to kiss his knuckles in a brief, dizzying moment of affection.

"I can't sleep," LeFou confessed, staring at him with a strange, somewhat lovestruck expression.

"Come here, then," Gaston murmured, opening his arms for LeFou to move closer to him and burrow his head in the crook of his neck. He was warm and perfect, and clearly belonged in Gaston's arms.

They drifted off together, and when Gaston finally awoke in the morning, it was to a sleeping LeFou at his side, his face peaceful and his brow smooth as he dozed.

For a brief, bright moment, they were teenagers again, pressing up against each other on a single wooden cot in the cold slopes of Normandy, the wind creeping through their canvas tent.

And then realization hit him, and bile rose in his throat.

 

* * *

 

"Hush, now, it's alright... just let me see -"

The woman leaned forward, as if to do what LeFou was asking of her, and vomited pitifully. Before LeFou could even ask for assistance, Gaston reached for the dirty cloth on the bedside table and began to wipe up her mess.

This was how every visit went now: they moved from house to house, mopping up the sick and examining the buboes and leaving strong-smelling poultices in their wake. That was all they could do, besides give the victims' helpless families a few scraps of advice.

LeFou was extremely frustrated that they couldn't do more - that the truth (no one would survive, no matter how hard they fought to save them) was so hard to conceal. He hated the look on people's faces when they realized, with finality, that their loved ones were going to die.

"I wish that they would all just stay inside," he fumed after that last visit, out in the bustling town square. He had made a hasty exit after informing the diseased woman's husband that she was not expected to survive the steadily-approaching winter, leaving Gaston to make a few harried apologies before catching up to him.

"The plague would've come anyway, my dear," Gaston told him. He wanted more than anything to wrap a gentle arm around his waist, but managed to restrain himself. "That girl surely wasn't the only one to drink from the water."

" _Yes_ , but - but if they would just stay in their houses to keep it from spreading any further -"

"Darling - LeFou, dear, it's alright. It's alright."

"It is  _not_ ," LeFou said. Had they been in any other situation, Gaston would've teased him for whining like a child - but now he recognized the frustration in his love's bloodshot eyes, coated with a sheen of thick tears.

"My love," he murmured. He took off one of his gloves and dared to reach out - under the safety of the nearest building's awning - for one tender moment, to stroke the other man's cheek softly and sweetly, praying that no one else could see. "We can't help everyone."

LeFou leaned into his touch for a second, his eyes fluttering closed; then he drew away again, out of fear that someone might catch them.

"You're going to be late to go see her," he reminded him shortly. "You'd best be off."

"Right," said Gaston: dazedly, craving more.

"I'll finish my rounds and see you at home tonight."

"Right."

A flash of eye contact - a veiled, perfunctory exchange of  _I love you_ 's - and then LeFou was walking steadily, with purpose, out of the plaza and into the afternoon sun.

Gaston loped away in the opposite direction, approaching the familiar little hostel at the outskirts of the village almost instinctively. He had made this very same trek so many times before the war, and even sometimes afterward, hoping to win the affections of the woman who resided there with a delivery of wildflowers or game or sometimes even money...

Then tragedy had struck, and all thoughts of Belle were wiped away. He caught small glimpses of her lithe figure every now and then in the market, or when he passed by the well where she liked to wash her clothes - but other than that, nothing. Until one day, she had pulled him aside on the steps of the library with a strange expression on her face and said, "What are you doing?"

"I'm..." He cleared his throat awkwardly, wondering what her hand was still doing on his forearm. "I am retrieving some books for LeFou."

"Oh." Another uncomfortable bout of silence, and then: "Would you like to come over for tea with me this week? I'm free any day you like."

"Er - I'll have to ask LeFou -"

"What, aren't you a grown man?" she scoffed. "You needn't ask him, he's not your guardian - even if he is something of a mother hen. I don't know how you put up with him."

Anger swelled in Gaston, and he barely registered her saying, "Come 'round whenever you want to. I'll be waiting."

He had expected LeFou to be angry, as well, when he told him this news, but he had simply sighed and said, "Go if you want to. She's right, I have no sway over you."

"LeFou - you -"

He could not articulate what LeFou meant to him, could not meet his calm, even gaze.

And now here he was, four days later, sitting inside this woman's tiny cottage and drinking some sort of flowery tea that he really did not like at all.

"So it's true?" Belle said to break the heavy silence that had been persisted for nearly ten minutes now. She wrapped her fingers around her mug and stared into its depths as if she expected to find an answer within. "Everyone is dying?"

Gaston didn't answer; instead, he took a nauseating sip of his own drink and said, "Where is your father?"

"Upstairs. You know, this is the first time you've ever really talked to me without trying to woo me or anything."

"I'm afraid you don't quite matter anymore," he said bluntly; "there are far more pressing things to attend to."

"I suppose," she replied, her voice cold. "What is it that made you change your mind about me?"

"I don't think it was anything in particular. I have my work, and I have LeFou. That's all there is to it."

"What's he doing now?"

Gaston sighed wearily, drank some more stomach-churning tea, and set his cup down. "I suppose his rounds are finished by now, so he must be conferring with the doctor. Making sure he doesn't do anything wrong."

"Isn't that strange? Why is  _he_ in charge of everything, and not Doctor Valentin?"

"He says he is too old to tackle something like this, and that LeFou is more than capable of taking over in his stead."

"Poor fellow," Belle remarked. "He thinks he can save us all, doesn't he? I've no doubt he's an experienced healer, but... this must be far beyond his knowledge. It's certainly beyond mine."

Gaston bristled. "One thing I've learned," he said as he stood, "after all these years of friendship with LeFou, is to never underestimate him."

She smiled at him bitterly from her ill-assembled kitchen table. "I suppose I'll just have to take your word for it."

"Mm. What's the time?"

Belle glanced at the clock behind his head and said, "Half past two."

"I'd best be going. Thank you for the tea."

She stood, as well. "Wouldn't you rather stay awhile?"

He looked at her hard face. Something akin to desire - cruel and biting, nothing like he'd ever imagined - shone in her eyes.

He considered. For years, he had told himself he wanted her, yearned for her every waking minute.

And now, he wanted nothing more than to be rid of her.

"No," he said simply, cleanly, with no strings attached. "If your father's still in bed at this hour, it might be wise to check on him. I'll be seeing you."

 

* * *

 

It was the harshest winter Villeneuve had ever seen: and yet, LeFou persisted through the cold.

He lined their leather coats with fur to keep them warm, and led Gaston through snowbanks and icy roads to reach each house. It was tough work, and although Gaston's bones felt as if they were caked with frost, he followed LeFou anyway.

"This weather is harder for them than it is for us," his companion said, clutching his valise of supplies tight against himself as the wind whipped at them. "We cannot for one  _second_ leave them alone, Gaston. I will not allow it."

Gaston said nothing, his silence falling over them. The town was quiet and cold; no snow fell from the sky. The street lamps were lit, casting yellowy halos onto the white blanket below their feet. The sky was dark and starry, but not in a comforting way.

He wanted to hold LeFou's hands and bring them to his warm lips as they plodded down the empty, snowy streets.

 

* * *

 

The shed door opened with a friendly creak, almost as if it were saying hello to him, welcoming him home. He stepped inside, placed his lantern on the floor, and stripped himself of the leather, feeling as if he could finally breathe again. (Of course, one tried  _not_ to breathe inside this sickly, septic shack, but that was besides the point.)

Once he was free, he hung the suit up on one of the hooks along the wall, and placed his gloves in a little cubby above the coat. He and LeFou had built this shed for this specific purpose: to quarantine the disease stuck to their protective wear, to shut it out of their lives and make sure it contaminated no one else.

At the door, he kicked off his contaminated boots and, being careful not to touch any part of the wooden structure, took a barefoot step onto the soft grass. It had been a month since the snow had finally melted for good, but he still shivered a little at the wispy, ticklish touch of the ground against the soles of his feet. He turned 'round, shutting and locking the door behind him (and reminding himself to wash his hands once inside), and then approached the homestead. Candles burning at the windowsills told him that LeFou had been home for a while now, and would likely be preparing dinner.

"Where are you, love?" Gaston called as he walked through the house. He had hoped the smell of some freshly-cooked meal would waft towards him as he went from room to room, but he was wrong. It seemed LeFou had forgotten that Gaston was coming home from his travels tonight. (Perhaps there were some leftovers waiting for him in the kitchen.)

He finally found him kneeling at the hearth in the sitting room, and alerted him of his presence with a soft knock. LeFou jumped suddenly, looking as if he'd seen a ghost, but did not rise from the floor.

"I didn't hear you coming," he said, exhaustion evident in his voice. Gaston sat next to him and took him into his arms, kissing his forehead as sweetly as he could. "How was your trip?"

He shook his head disconsolately. "I couldn't find her."

"Mmm." LeFou sighed shakily and relaxed into his embrace, turning his head away towards the fire. "That's alright. It's alright. We'll just do it ourselves."

"Yes, we will," Gaston said. He held LeFou even more tightly against himself. He never wanted to let go. "We're going to be alright."

The man in his arms shuddered, and Gaston saw that he was crying. His tears glistened like streaks of lavender in the firelight.

"Hey," he said dimly. "LeFou, what's wrong?"

His friend wept bitterly.

"LeFou - LeFou, my love - dearest, what did I say? Did I do something wrong?"

LeFou shook his head pathetically, his eyes screwed shut. Gaston leaned forward and pressed their foreheads together.

"Lenore," he said softly, with trepidation. His birth name was like honeysuckle in his mouth. "Darling, what's got you so upset?"

Finally, the other man opened his eyes. "There is no more hope," he said jadedly. "I was banking on her to be real, and she isn't, and -"

"There is  _so much_ hope," Gaston cut in. "So much. We have no shortage of it here."

"Don't lie to me," LeFou whispered. "She... she was our only solace, she was going to save us all."

" _You_ are already saving us all. You are the only hope we need, my treasure -"

LeFou's lips were abruptly pressed against his own, and years of pining and lingering glances and careful touches had led up to this moment, and Gaston's mind was reeling, because  _how could LeFou possibly love him back_ , and then suddenly, the hand-holding and the affectionate stares and the flustered looks all made sense, and in an aching moment of clarity, he realized why they slept together every night, and he understood why Belle no longer meant anything to him, and he finally embraced the fact that LeFou was  _everything_ , and this made so much sense, his fingers splayed against Gaston's cheek and heat swelling in his groin and their bodies so close, but never close enough, and their tongues in each other's mouths, and how could he have never thought to kiss LeFou before when it was so nice, so lovely, so perfect and right, and the stars in the sky, visible through their candlelit windows, must have finally aligned, and the fire was warm, and the room was warm, and LeFou was pulling away before he was ready for this to end...

"I love you," was all Gaston could think to say. He had not yet said it aloud before; it had never been necessary before, but now he felt it was.

LeFou was still crying a little, but he kissed Gaston's fingertips and smiled. Then he pulled him to his feet and lead him towards the stairs to their bedroom.

 

* * *

 

LeFou was sound asleep the next day when Gaston rose. He didn't bother waking him.

He looked down at the tousled curls in need of a trim, bunched up against the pillowcase - and simply drank him in. _Someday soon,_ he thought begrudgingly,  _he may no longer be here for me to admire_ _._

And so he looked.

He looked until he had had his fill, and his heart felt fit to burst. Then he gathered his hunting things - his cloak and hat, his musket, his bag - and left.

It was a Sunday, the day on which he neglected his work and allowed himself this one privilege. LeFou was adamant about him getting out of Villeneuve at least once a week: "It's good for you," he reasoned, "and I know how boring following me around everywhere can be. And it helps us survive, too. We can't live off of just herbs, you know."

And so he went - but on this particular day, he could not seem to focus. He returned at dusk with a somewhat bruised ego and a few pheasants slung over his shoulder. He didn't know why he couldn't capture his normal yield.

In hindsight, perhaps he had been anticipating the unsettling news that awaited him at home.

"Belle's father has died," LeFou told him shortly as he stepped into the kitchen. All tenderness from the previous night was immediately forgotten.

"Oh," Gaston said dumbly.

"Which means that she was exposed, and she will likely die, as well."

He said nothing.

"Are you alright?"

He nodded. His insides were numb. He felt dreadfully ill.

He was lucky to be alive.

 

* * *

 

"Isn't it the strangest thing? Her father dies, and now she's gone. Foolish girl - she'll probably spread the rotten disease that killed him to other towns -"

Gaston whipped around to stare at the miller, eyes bulging. _"What?"_ he hissed. "What did you say?"

"I - I only said that Belle has left the village."

LeFou blanched beside him and nearly dropped his basket. "Oh, shit," he mumbled. "Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit."

Finally, Gaston realized what had truly caused him to drift away from her. LeFou had been a part of it, of course, but it was more so her coldness: the selfishness she hid beneath layered patchwork skirts and a charming, false innocence that masked the smile of a viper.

 

* * *

 

It was bound to happen eventually.

That did not mean that Gaston was ready for LeFou to catch the plague, or that he was going to retain his sanity in the process.

 

* * *

 

He searched for her for a week, and then finally, he somehow stumbled across her odd little hovel.

Perhaps she had recognized the sheer, desperate need in him, and had decided to reveal herself to him at long last, after a year of hardship and death and suffering.

He found her nestled in the crevice of a strange, misshapen tree that could almost be considered a cave of sorts. She was stooped over something boiling in a cauldron, no doubt cooking up some nefarious spell - or perhaps one for good; perhaps she had been expecting his plea; perhaps this was the cure he was looking for.

Gaston cleared his throat roughly. She addressed him without turning around to see who it was.

"Why have you come here?" she said in her teasing, musical voice.

"You know why."

That made the enchantress laugh. "Yes, but I want to hear you say it."

"I have come here to bargain for the life of my friend."

Agathe pondered his query for a moment. The silence felt decades long.

Then: "I do not accept. Leave."

He spluttered, outraged. "You can't just dismiss me like that - at least hear what I have to say -"

"You have nothing to say of note," she said disdainfully. "I've heard it all before. I cannot stop the plague; I cannot save the lives that Death demands. And neither can you."

Gaston wanted to scream. He wanted to kill this woman, wring her neck and show her what Death was really like.

But he reeled himself in.

"We will see if you change your tune soon enough," he spat, and strode off into the mist.

 

* * *

 

 

"Just hold on, LeFou, hold on..."

He did not care that he was infecting himself by holding LeFou's hand.

"Please, my darling, hold on for me..."

With every breath, it sounded like his lungs were deflating.

"Please, my love - LeFou - Lenore,  _please_ -"

His lover smiled a little. Blood dribbled from his lips as he opened his red-stained mouth to say something, but -

"Hush, hush, don't say anything - not a word, not a single -"

"I - love you," he choked, struggling, drowning in his own ichor.

"LeFou, don't..."

He was squeezing Gaston's hand like a vice - like a bear-trap, like a wild dog snapping at his fingers -

"I loved you - as if - as -"

_"LeFou, please."_

"As if - you were - mine -"

He coughed, his chest heaving. His shirt was stained the same viscous, glossy red as the one that tinged Gaston's overcoat.

"I was always yours," Gaston told him, surprised to find his own face wet - with tears? With blood? He did not know. "Always."

"We - we were so - so  _y-young_..."

He was wheezing. Gaston wanted to puncture the buboes on his neck, to rid him of any symptom the plague had branded onto his temple of a body - and he kept thinking, _Death is coming_ _; he is going to drown on dry land; gag on his own life force -_

And then he was fading, and words were cascading from Gaston's mouth, confession and begging and adoration and bargaining and swearing and _the taste of summer honeysuckle_  and sweet nothings and, and, and negative space, and... and...

...and he was a husk of dust and faded starlight...

 

* * *

 

_Fire is cleansing -_

He drifts through each room without purpose, without breath.

 _\- it brings_ _forth new beginnings -_

He does not leave.

_\- burn the house, burn the bedsheets and the pillows and the clothes he once wore, and the clothes on your own body, and burn yourself, it's the only - the only way -_

He is trapped.

Trapped inside his own wide frame - his shell, his skeleton - unable to stop himself as he drops the match.

Trapped inside an empty house as the flames lick at his arms.

Trapped, panting, outside on the grass, on his hands and knees, as the smoke rises and voices cry out and dawn breaks.

 

* * *

 

He is jailed. He expects that he will die.

The thought is comforting to him.

 

* * *

 

Sunlight seeps through the barred window. There is a ringing in his ears.

He opens his eyes and touches his neck. The lumps - the masses of fluid and pus and god knows what else - are still there. He wants to drain them, but has been denied the tools to do so.

He is dying. He wishes to die. He has been told that he will die soon.

He closes his eyes.

 

* * *

 

A harsh golden light permeates his eyelids. They flutter open.

Gaston - for, that _is_ his name, isn't it? - reaches up to the vesicles instinctively, and feels nothing beneath his fingers.

He is made dimly aware of the existence of a castle, and a prince living within this castle, and other people residing there who once lived in Villeneuve.

 _The curse must have been broken,_ he thinks slowly, sluggishly, obtusely. He lies back against his cot, relieved.

And then anger ripples through his veins, and he is pulsating with rage, and he rises from his makeshift bed, and the door to his cell is magically unlocked, and he storms -

 

* * *

 

His hands are around Belle's slender neck, and he notices with satisfaction that her new gown is muddy, that she is finding it somewhat difficult to breathe. She is dead before her new husband arrives at the scene, stomps down the alley with a furious bellow, and then -

The stolen pistol quivers in his hand, and the prince is dead at his feet, red oozing from a tiny hole in his chest - he is bleeding out just as LeFou did -

\- and he is gliding through the village square, looking for the wretched sorceress so he can kill her, too, but - someone screams, and he is tackled to the ground, and he is being pulled - he is - he -

 _Not that place,_ he thinks wildly;  _not there, anywhere but there -_

He is a circus animal, lashing out in a frenzied attempt to escape his cage, a last-ditch leap for freedom -

And then he is inside the carriage and the door is being locked behind him, and the coachman cracks the whip, and he is going, going, rolling down the hill, sobbing, weeping, screaming, going, gone...

**Author's Note:**

> Technically, yes, this fic is a little historically inaccurate - cases of the plague mostly died out after medieval times, but (as exemplified in the movie) it did occasionally rise again in some parts of Europe as late as the nineteenth century. Whether it reared its ugly head in France or not, I'm not sure, but I stuck with movie canon and explored the possibility of it, anyway.
> 
> Please feel free to leave any comments or kudos if you enjoyed this fic - I'd love to hear any feedback you have for me!


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